Classic Poem

The world is young. — Her eyes are girlish still,
And girlish calm on her white brows is set: —
Her marriage midday rapture tarrieth yet
Beyond that farthest faintly-outlined hill.
Not for our keen desire or urgent will
The world will wear her jewelled coronet;
To plan that crown a thousand hearts have met;
It mocks each single craftsman's noblest skill.

We shall not see it. 'Mid the morning mist
And 'mid the dewy morning grass we stand:
The world's soft girlish mouth our mouths have kissed,
And we have held her white unwedded hand: —
But ah! the rich mature lips tarry long
For other seasons, and another song.